


Interrogation

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, yeah, there was a kink meme prompt based on <a href="http://9arco95.tumblr.com/post/78126603897/do-you-remember-me-doctor"> this image</a>. I think I failed at the prompt, but....what else is new?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interrogation

It wasn’t every day fate decided to hand Deadlock the good kind of surprise, and he was determined to enjoy every last iota of it.  Starting with a long, slow hipswagger past the larger mech, wrists bound, on his knees, his shadow falling in sharp lines from the solitary light of the interrogation pod.  The smirk on his face was just this side of a sneer, a curve lit and triumphant. “Bet you never expected to meet again like this.”  

“Could have lived without it, yeah,” Ratchet said, chin up, almost defiant. Not quite what Deadlock was going for, but what did it matter? He had the medic as a prisoner. He could kill him if he wanted.  Let Ratchet think he could get away with some attitude.  It could be fun.  

It had been a long time since Deadlock had had any fun.  

He moved around behind Ratchet, close enough that the outer corona of his EM field brushed against the medic’s.  “Question is,” he leaned forward, to whisper in Ratchet’s audio, “if you’re going to live through it.”  He gave a chuckle: it was just about his kind of joke, dark and violent.

“Just a note,” Ratchet said, coolly. “I don’t respond well to threats.”  

Deadlock felt his mouth tug down, the grin flattening. “I don’t threaten.”  

Ratchet flashed a grin. “Good. Then we’ll get along fine.” It was probably petty, Ratchet thought, to try to steal some of Deadlock’s gloating from him. This...wasn’t what he’d hoped for the mech who’s life he’d saved.

Deadlock frowned, hand moving to squeeze, just a little too hard, on the other’s shoulder, a little mollified when he felt the involuntary wince.  “Bet you don’t even remember me,” he said.

“You know,” Ratchet twisted his shoulder, under the pinch. Figures, Drift had learned how to hurt.  Too bad that seemed to be the only thing. “I’m really kind of flattered by all this attention. I didn’t think I loomed this large in your memories....Drift.”

“Don’t call me that.” The words, snapped out quickly, almost barked. Like a yelp of pain, pressing an old wound. “That’s not my name,” he added, as though trying to cover up. “That’s not who I am.”

“Sound pretty defensive about it,” Ratchet said. His optics flicked to the thin door of the carry cell, his voice turning sweetly innocent.“Oh. They don’t know?”

“You think you’re better than me?” A clumsy change of topic.  He might as well, Ratchet thought, have just conceded the point.  With grace.  

“Yeah,” Ratchet admitted. “I do. But I think you’re better than you, too. Better than you are now.”  This wasn’t why he’d saved him. He didn’t expect loyalty, he didn’t expect gratitude, but this felt like a waste: to have his life saved, only to squander it in hate and smallness.  

Deadlock snorted--for show--coming around to Ratchet’s front. “You just want me as I was,” he said. “ Helpless. Pathetic. Weak.” He spat the words, anger overriding his little ‘show’.  

“I don’t want that for anyone,” Ratchet said. He looked up, defiant. “But you? You think this is all you’re good for?”

"The frag you think you know about me?" Deadlock snarled. Probably a rhetorical question. Ratchet didn't care.

"I know you boosted. And I did a pretty thorough overhaul while you were out.  So, I know," a delicate cough, "how you got the creds to get the boosters."

Well. If he wanted a reaction, he got one: Deadlock’s backhand striking his face.  “Don’t you even--!”  Even Deadlock didn’t know how to finish that threat.  

“That make you feel better?” A smarter mech might have held his peace.  Ratchet knew that sometimes, to probe a wound, you had to dig a little deeper into it.

Deadlock just snarled, circling him like a predator.  From the prey to predator: it probably felt like an improvement to him, Ratchet thought. It wasn’t.  He waited, watching, almost able to see the way Deadlock reached into his history, for some pattern, some way to respond.  

He found it, lunging forward, grabbing Ratchet by the jaw, tilting it up hard, so that his head was a sharp outline silhouette, lowlight optics blazing from the shadow. “I really suggest you shut up,” Deadlock said, voice harsh as grit.  

“Or else?” It was almost a habit at this point, goad, probe, prod.  He could feel the hooosh of air, like a punch in the belly, as Deadlock’s fingers tightened on his chin, the mouth turning into a feral grin before closing over his in a demanding thing that couldn’t really be called a kiss. It was the kind of kiss a buymech probably knew from the other side: possessive, humiliating, biting into shame and ownership. Well, it shut Ratchet up. He tried to pull away, the glossa probing past his lipplates, intrusive. And he could feel the EM field flare against him, like a wash of heat and hurt need.

Deadlock dropped to one knee, leveling the height between them, hand still immobilizing Ratchet’s jaw, mouth still hard on his. He gave a growl, owning, possessive, his other hand snaking down Ratchet’s body, finding the catch to Ratchet’s interface hatch. Ratchet struggled, twisting, the restraints on his wrists slicing into the cabling.

Deadlock broke the kiss, his optics febrile and triumphant as his fingers slid over Ratchet’s equipment covers.  He liked watching the struggle--when Ratchet mastered his body, his face still showed it, the revulsion, the shock.  Not so pathetic now, Deadlock thought.

“You’re...supposed to be asking me questions,” Ratchet’s voice was almost a groan: Deadlock’s fingers had a buymech’s skill, flirting and teasing over the equipment cover, stirring current and desire, in spite of himself.  “My interrogation. My rules,” Deadlock said, emphasizing the pronouns. His, finally, for the mech who for so long had had nothing. His optics flicked down their bodies, engine giving a whir of arousal that seemed to echo in his growl.  His mouth moved to Ratchet’s throat, and he could feel a nip and a lick along the cables, shuddering, feeling his valve cover retract, with a muted click, the cool air of the interrogation cube striking the warmed lubricant. The growl continued, a rumbling purr, as Deadlock’s skilled fingers circling the valve’s rim, swirling through the lubricant, before slipping inside, two fingers parting the mesh, probing in, spreading against the calipers.

It shouldn’t feel this good.  Ratchet tried to will his body not to respond. This was a patient--a former patient, a mech who’d had nothing, who didn’t know how to have anything.  He was wounded, injured, in ways Ratchet couldn’t fix, especially with his hands behind his back.  That didn’t mean, Ratchet told himself, that this was all right, that this was okay.  That didn’t mean you should want this.  

He didn’t want this. He didn’t want this for himself. He didn’t want this for Drift, either, the sullen/sweet spark he’d seen in his clinic. “Drift,” he said, and the wince as Deadlock’s fingers hooked hard in his valve helped him pull out of the lull of pleasure, the way those fingers had been stirring current, the heavy/hot tingling start of an overload, within him.  He persisted, his next words through gritted dentae. “Drift. You don’t want this.”

“What do you know what I want.” Deadlock’s voice was flat, venomous.  

It had been a mistake, Ratchet realized, because he’d called Deadlock on it, making him escalate--Deadlock pushed him back, till he fell hard on his back, grunting as his weight hit his bound wrists. Ratchet tried to twist off to one side, to keep his weight off the restraints which were gouging into his wrists, but Deadlock was on him almost immediately, shoving Ratchet’s thighs wide, unsheathing his own spike and leaning over Ratchet, his face a rictus of a violent snarl. “Maybe if you beg, I’ll stop,” he said, and Ratchet could feel the head of the spike, hard and slick, slide down the span between his own spike and valve.  

It was an opening, Ratchet thought. It was a hint, maybe, even if Deadlock didn’t realize it.  It gave a hint he didn’t want to do this, he wanted to be begged. He wanted the power, not to brutalize, but to withhold.  

“Deadlock,” Ratchet said, quickly, a concession already, one that stopped Deadlock, fast. “Look. This isn’t you. You’re not a rapist.”  

“How do you know what I am? Killed enough mechs. Same thing.” The optics narrowed, but the word ‘rapist’ seemed to have started to worm through that hard mask of his face.  

“It’s not the same. War. It’s war.” He’s talking, Ratchet thought. He’s talking, his spike still hovering just outside the valve.  It was hope, or at least a glimmer of it.  “You kill people trying to kill you. But this?” He spread his hands, under his body, lowering his voice to almost a whisper. “You don’t want to be the kind of mech who used to do this to you.”  

The optics flickered, turning down at the edges, as though on the brink of tears, and Ratchet felt a chuff of air down his chassis.  He should stop now, while he was ahead, but he couldn’t. Ratchet, in his own way, never knew when to stop. “Deadlock.  You don’t--you can’t--hate yourself that much.”  

A sound like a hiccup, a high, sharp sound, and then a hand on his chassis, and then Deadlock’s weight was gone. Ratchet lay for a long moment, feeling the coolness of the empty air against his chassis, his still-exposed valve, blinded by the solitary overhead light.

 

***

 

“Get up.”  The voice was flat and harsh again, and loud, too loud, echoing around the interrogation cell.  Ratchet rolled to his feet, autocommanding his interface panel shut.  It was hard to stand up with hands tied behind his back, but he managed, lurchingly, side to side, chassis swinging his mass around, in time to see Deadlock fill out a form, tapping into a comment form, fast, angry pecks of the keypad. “He knows _**NOTHING**_.”  Like that. All caps, bold faced, italics, underlined.  As emphatic as only Deadlock could be.

Deadlock turned, waving to the door with his gun, saying nothing.

He said nothing for the rest of the time, as they walked through the hastily-erected Decepticon camp, mechs clustered around fuel pods, weapons stations, or sprawled out in recharge. So many injuries that Ratchet felt his hands itch, having to walk by.  A few--only a few--looked up, and then away, quickly, and Ratchet knew it was Deadlock’s gaze they were avoiding, that they pretended not to see him for their own good.  

It hurt, to think that Drift had gotten that reputation, that he’d sunk into violence, used it as a weapon, as it had been used against him.  

But he’d stopped, Ratchet thought, as the ground changed under his feet, pavements a little less broken up, buildings a little more intact. He’d stopped. There was that line he hadn’t crossed. It wasn’t much, it was a tiny island of hope in a very large, dark sea.

“Stop.”

Ratchet had gotten so used to the sounds of their feet, crunching cinders, scraping on grit, that the voice came as a surprise. He stopped, and heard the sound of something coming out of some storage. A gun, he thought. He’s going to kill me, after all.

It made sense. He knew too much. He knew Deadlock’s past, the humiliating truths: addict, whore, thief.  And he knew, more than that, that that mech was still under there, still in the spark. And by killing him, Deadlock was going to kill that off, too, submerge the island of hope, put his past back into darkness forever, turn permanently away from the light.

His wrists grew slack, and it took him a klik to realize that the restraints had been released, hands tingling with freedom as he turned, letting--not like he could help it--the surprise show on his face.

There was the gun, just as he’d thought, aimed at his head.  And there was Deadlock’s face, a mask that was tearing even as Ratchet watched.  

“Go,” Deadlock’s voice on the very edge of control.  

“Deadlock--”

“Get the frag out of here,” he repeated. It was Drift, he’d swear it, speaking, the gun wavering in his grip. He didn’t have to add that Ratchet should leave before he changed his mind.  

Ratchet didn’t need another hint, folding into his alt, and starting to rumble down the street.  He flinched when he heard the shot, tires jerking to one side, a pummel of fear in his spark, but his rearview mirror caught the image: Deadlock shooting into the ground, to make the noise, so that anyone back at camp would think--would know--that Deadlock had dispatched the prisoner.

The prisoner who knew ‘nothing’.  Ratchet snorted at the irony, rolling to freedom.  

  



End file.
